


Full Potential

by ChillieBean



Series: Fixed Point in Time [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Study, Depression, Gen, Pre-Talon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22877980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillieBean/pseuds/ChillieBean
Summary: Akande sighs deeply, balling his hands into fists and ignoring the shooting pain up both arms. He closes his eyes as the void pulls him in deeper, so deep he can’t breathe.Right now, he is a man without an identity, a purpose.Right now, he is nothing.
Series: Fixed Point in Time [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1221212
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10
Collections: AkanDay 2020





	Full Potential

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my contribution to Akanday 2020! I don't write nearly as much Doomfist as I should, and I had a ton of fun writing this one.
> 
> Enjoy!

Akande looks at his trembling, bloodied hands. 

Most of it isn’t his blood, but rather that of his opponent’s. The man didn’t stand a chance, not when Akande saw him as nothing but a boxing bag, an object for him to channel his anger and hatred and resentment for what his life has become. 

He shouldn’t be sitting here, in the back alley of this club at the dead of night, bitterly coming down from his adrenaline rush. No, he should be out there, on the World’s stage, a celebrated fighter, a warrior. 

A hero. 

But fate is cruel, and it took his arm. Almost three years to the day, it destroyed his fighting career before he reached his true potential. It robbed him of everything he had worked towards, all the blood and sweat and tears, the countless hours spent training, the early mornings and late nights.

Martial arts was his entire world, and it was viciously stolen from him. 

Tears stinging his eyes, Akande looks up at the stars, shining brightly in the night. He knows he is lucky. Luckier than most—if he weren’t heir to Ogundimu Technologies, he wouldn’t have a prosthetic so lifelike most people can’t tell the difference. But his right arm _is_ fake, and the sole reason why he can’t perform in legitimate competitions. 

After his recovery, as he worked his way through his anger and resentment in therapy sessions, the only avenue he had left was to give Ogundimu Technologies all of his attention. Granted, it was always his destination, he wouldn’t fight forever of course, he just got there years earlier than planned. 

He gave it everything, applied those same hours spent training for martial arts to the business, but it wasn’t enough. He treated each meeting like he was in the ring. Like the person on the other side of the table was his opponent, someone he could fight, calculating their moves, their thoughts, and using them to his advantage to secure a win. 

Akande is damn good at it—sales steadily increased and their reach has expanded into Europe thanks to him. One day, the company will be his, and when that day happens, he can say that he gave it everything. That sinking those hours he would have otherwise spent training made it the force it is today. 

And yet, that deep void in his chest remains. Losing his arm ripped him apart, and he is yet to recover. He’s sure that he _won’t_ recover from this. It doesn’t matter how hard he throws himself into the business, it will _never_ be the same as being out there, bare-knuckled, staring down his competitor. In the ring, it’s kill or be killed. There is nothing— _nothing_ —better than that moment, seeing the bloodlust in an opponent’s eyes, ducking and blocking, breaking bone, hearing that satisfying _crack_ followed by the scream of pain, the resultant gasps and cheers from the crowd.

 _Nothing_ compares. 

Akande turns his hands, looking from his palms to his knuckles. His left-hand aches, his skin is split and bruised. His right hand, synthetic skin is torn down to the metal skeleton underneath. It hurts just as much as his flesh and blood hand—despite it being fake he wanted it to be as real as possible, to _feel_ pain, feel the gentle touch of another person, and yet, it will never truly be the same. 

Even landing blows feels different between each hand. Yes, it's made him stronger, given him this _advantage_ and he's the champion because of it, simply undefeatable. Everyone who faces him ends up in the hospital, a few have even left in body bags. Tonight’s competitor certainly did. It depends on his mood, on the void that pulls him in deeper. Some days are good—days where he’s sealed the deal on a business venture. Where he scores a win, where the company’s numbers on the stock exchange rise that little bit more. 

Most days, though, the void consumes him, swallows him down kicking and screaming. Nothing is enough. On those days, like today, he makes an appearance at the ring, takes on the next person too cocky to realise that they’ve sealed their fate and fights them. Depending on how much he feels like he’s drowning, he’ll let them get in a few hits just so he can feel _something_ , pain to distract from the numbness. 

Other times, he takes them out in as little as thirty seconds. He has a reputation for his ruthlessness and his cunning. The Destroyer they call him, for dealing with his opponents without breaking a sweat. It was easy in the beginning, rising through the ranks, making a name for himself. Toppling the champion and taking his spot will forever be one his highest moments. But fighting everyone else who came after, vying to steal the crown from him, was never a challenge. It got too easy, almost _boring_. There was no way he would _let_ them take it from him. 

Ultimately, though, he was powerless to stop just that. He has become a product of his own success—most are too afraid to take him on, and the ones who do, the truly weak and stupid who think they have something to prove, are barely worth his time. 

As such, he’s not called on to fight as often as he used to. His odds of winning are so high, people don’t bother wasting their money placing bets on his opponent. He’s become unprofitable, and since there isn’t _anyone_ out there who is willing to take him on in the underground scene and actually win, this club has let him go. 

It was under the guise of ‘retirement’. They paid him off, told him to keep his mouth shut and play the part or they’d take his life. He agreed, not because of the threat—he’s not afraid of criminals in cheap suits—but because there was no challenge anymore. He was growing more frustrated with each passing day and it showed, both in the ring and in conference rooms. 

There has to be more to life than this, than sweet-talking by day and breaking bones by night. If one underground ring has had its fill of him, who's to say that the next one won’t tire just as quickly? Quicker? Who’s to say they’ll take him in at all? 

Akande sighs deeply, balling his hands into fists and ignoring the shooting pain up both arms. He closes his eyes as the void pulls him in deeper, so deep he can’t breathe. 

Right now, he is a man without an identity, a purpose. 

Right now, he is nothing. 

“Hard to believe they kicked you to the curb like that.”

Akande stands quickly, settling on the man approaching. He’s shrouded mostly by darkness, but as he steps into the light, Akande recognises him. Not by name, rather he’s seen him in the audience of his last few fights, just watching. 

“They didn’t,” Akande says, drawing his shoulders back. “I—”

“Retired?” The man smirks wickedly. “Please. You are not the first they’ve tossed away like trash. It’s their signature move.”

Akande takes a good look at the man. The scars on the stranger’s face tell him that he’s seen war—perhaps a product of the same conflict that took his arm. He’s definitely battle-hardened, Akande can see it in his eyes. 

The fact that the man knows that his retirement wasn’t real, and the fact that now, _now_ in the aftermath as he licks his wounds the stranger decides to approach him, there is more here than meets the eye. 

Akande can feel the grip of the void slipping, just enough that he can breathe again.

“It is their loss,” Akande says. 

“It certainly is.” The man enters his space now, taking Akande’s hands in his own and looking at them. “They had _this_ , this raw strength, this _power_.” He thumbs at the torn synthetic skin, exposing more of the metal underneath. “They had _this_ and squandered it.”

“Do you have a better use for it then?” Akande spits, snatching his hands back. This man isn’t sleazy like the men who run this ring, no this man wants him for personal gain. Akande might be desperately seeking a purpose, but the thought of being tied down to someone, _used_ to further someone else’s gain is something he vowed to never do again.

 _Never_ again.

“I do,” the man says, smirking. “You are a fighter, Akande. A warrior, you do your best work in there,” his eyes flit to the building, “ _not_ in the office.”

“I’ve earned my company—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I keep up with the stock market. I’ve been interested in you, Akande, for a long time, and now that you’re _free_ of this _obligation_ , I want to offer you a job.”

“I _have_ a job.”

The man _tsks._ “You don’t deserve to be chained behind a desk, wasting away. You should be able to _use_ this power you have. I saw you in there, holding back. You should be able to reach your full potential, to show the world what you're _truly_ capable of.”

Oh, how Akande has had that exact same thought. This man, while keeping his cards close to his chest, _knows_ which buttons to push. Though he supposes it’s not a hard conclusion to come to—bored office worker seeks brutal, _illegal_ fighting rings to reclaim lost glory. 

Akande could go to another ring, and another, and _another_ and still not fill the gaping chasm in his chest. 

Ogundimu Technologies alone hasn’t sated the intense hunger of the void. Fighting in the ring quelled it for a short time, but soon enough became not enough. 

What else does he have to live for? What does he stand to lose? 

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, Akande levels the man with a hard stare. “What do you have to offer?”

“I’m seeking individuals such as yourself, those with unique _talents_ to join my cause.”

“And what _is_ your cause?”

“Numbani is a scourge, a blight. The Crisis robbed hundreds of thousands of their homes, their _lives_. It tore families apart. And yet, _they_ continue as if the robots won’t once again try to wipe us out. So I ask you,” the man takes a step forward, “will you stand by my side?”

Akande can’t help but look down at his right hand. If it weren’t for the Crisis, he would have his arm, and he would be champion. _They_ robbed him of his life, of what _could_ have been.

And now, with this opportunity to _fight_ , to use his hands again, unencumbered, _uninhibited_ , to reach his full potential? 

He can’t turn this down. This is what he was looking for, this physical means to channel his anger and frustration, and this, _this_ is what will fill that void. 

“I will.” Akande extends his hand and the man takes it.

“Excellent. Now, let’s get you patched up. We leave first thing in the morning.”

The man turns his back on Akande, walking down the unlit path of the alleyway. Akande picks up his bag, jogging to catch up to him. 

“Who are you?” Akande asks, walking in step with him. 

The man glances at him, smirking just as wickedly as when he first appeared. “Akinjide Adeyemi.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/BeanChillie) and [PillowFort!](https://www.pillowfort.social/ChillieBean) Come say hi!


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